


A Moribund Affair

by TheStrangestHell



Category: Beetlejuice (1988)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Comedy, Dark Comedy, F/M, Gore, Gothic, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Psychological, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrangestHell/pseuds/TheStrangestHell
Summary: Lydia had always known death. She was all-too-familiar with the way it plagued her life and filled her head with dark, corrupted and twisted images, filling her glass and making her drunk of emotion no living person should have to live with. Alone in that big old house, Lydia remains in what one would assume as solitude. Yet a skin-crawling presence lingers within the walls of the Winter River home, chilling the ignorant townsfolk to the bone by means of which they do not understand. Isolated, haunted and bitter, Lydia is destined for life (and death) of an unfortunate circumstance.





	1. Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> As IF I'm writing a whole new work while still plodding on with 'The Apparition'. I know, I'm awful, but I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. Please forgive me, I promise to treasure and write both of them with equal love. I suppose that part of my reasoning for this was because my writing has changed a significant amount and a lot of 'The Apparition' updates are just me going back and despairing over how awfully written the first 11-or-so chapters are haha ugh. The other part is: fuck it. I'll write what I want. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!

That was her alright. There was no mistaking such an ensemble of velvet black and complementary tones so dark they almost indistinguishable; clashing with lips that, today, were painted deep blood red. A crimson flower with hidden thorns that could slice the pride of anyone stupid enough to vex her with an excruciatingly sharp wit. Onyx hair that stopped short of her shoulders glistened and gleamed in the sunlight, a false advertisement for the girl’s terrifying presentation. With expression and appearance like that, it was surprising that she had any friends at all. Those brave enough to approach her called her a viper, and those stupid enough to win her favour never lived to tell the tale, running home with their tails between their legs. And viper she was, her head permanently rearing in preparation to strike fear into the non-believers. There was even word that she had the ability to talk to ghosts. But that was all just talk. Ghosts didn’t exist.

That was her alright: Lydia Deetz.

She stooped in the graveyard, kneeling before a grave and muttering words those passing by could not distinguish. It was common practice to avert gazes and turn blind eyes when in her presence, yet it was puzzlingly difficult not to be oddly charmed or intrigued by her, alone, with the dead. She would be seen in the graveyard first thing in the morning to the last hours of the night, taking photos and talking - either to herself or to others, no one never knew for sure. She was strange, in the most peculiar way. It would be bold to assume she had never noticed the judgment of those around her, yet, just as she was with everything, she was perfectly tuned to their snide remarks and gasps of horror. She almost revelled in it, the attention she received, perhaps,  the most she had ever experienced in her life. Her young life, only twenty years of age; so fresh yet so wise. 

Her features were timeless. Dark brows and wide, alarmingly hazel eyes that stood out garishly against her pale skin and deep attire. An average nose, slightly Romanesque in design, inherited - no doubt - from her drunk of a father (or so they said). Her lips were delicate, the larger lower look often giving her an expression similar to a stone-cold pout, glowering at passersby even when she did not intend to. Her hair, though dark, was wild and toned to perfection. It was common knowledge that she had not been graced with the locks of her mother - may her soul rest in peace - and that, in itself, was truly remarkable as one would assume the short-cut was perfectly natural. She was skilled with paint, knowing exactly how to make her features pop far more than they already did. It would be wrong to label her design. She was not beautiful. That was plain to see; but she oozed grace and a refinement not seen in many women her age, despite her sometimes scruffy appearance. 

It had long since grown dark in the graveyard. She hadn’t moved from this spot all day, head bowed as soft raindrops fell, kissing the top of her head and shoulders in a veil of sombre celebration. Streetlights that illuminated her pathway home had slowly been flickering into life, preparing to assist her inevitable return home - if one could even call it such a thing. Despite their fear of her, their hushed voices and whispered criticisms, the townsfolk of Winter River couldn’t help but pity this girl. She desperately, clearly needed support. People just didn’t go around like that alone unless they were disturbed in the mind; and Lydia, no doubt, was deeply, _deeply_ disturbed.

_____________

 “I’m home.” The front door slammed on the empty house, (not that Lydia had been expecting a warm welcome.) She trudged in, kicking off her boots so that they lay just behind the readily-closed door. A small puddle formed at their place of rest as delicate drops of muddy-rain water seeped onto the floor. It would dry by the morning. No one was here to see it. No one had lived here with Lydia since that fateful night in ‘88, the summer humidity so strong today that it could not help but rise to the brim of her mind.

 She had married the dead - well, almost. If it had not been for Juno, that strange little old woman with terrifying power, Lydia dreaded to think what would have become of her former self. As punishment for their foolishness, her dear friends: the Maitlands had been sucked beneath the surface, screaming, doomed for an eternity trapped in the afterlife. Their sentence cut short by desperation, by their inexperience and foolishness. 

Her brow furrowed as she trampled into the granite living space that had once been so warm and welcoming with Barbara’s furnishings. Although it had been nearly four years since the whole affair happened, Lydia had never amended the _horrific_ interior design her stepmother had insisted on subjecting the house to. Speaking of the bitch, she and Lydia’s father Charles had fled that night, without so much as a backward glance on their daughter. 

 _“Witch! You brought this on us, you foul brat!”_ Delia had screamed, clutching bags of her most prized possessions and sculptures small enough to stuff into three whole suitcases. Charles didn’t even look at Lydia. He had left clutching several bottles of his finest whiskey, slamming the door shut behind them. Somehow, the house still rang with that awful sound. The sound of rejection. You would think this would be enough punishment for the girl, Lydia. But no. Of course, Juno had not understood her sheer desperation to save her beloved ghostly friends; calling the name of a man damned for eternity. His wicked face, musty smell, and vile personality was one Lydia knew all too well. How could she not, when he was in this very house?

Thankfully, Juno’s punishment was not eternally binding - unlike the fate of the poor Maitlands. Lydia had meant to do good that night, her own naive desperation blinding her to the danger of the poltergeist in question. One more year to suffer through. Just one more year.

Thankfully, she hardly knew he was here, but she hadn’t been able to sleep easy for the last four years. He was still trapped in that model, sleazing around - no doubt - in that whorehouse, Juno had used for distraction. Knowing him, he probably had no idea how much time had passed, let alone how many women he had fucked through. 

“Gross,” Lydia spat, opening the fridge and grabbing a carton of orange juice. The image of him, Betelgeuse, lying naked among voluptuous strippers made her nauseous. The whole idea of him wasn’t exactly a picnic, after all.

The model itself was back in the attic. Needless to say, Lydia had bolted the door and not so much as thought about going back up there once Juno had safely locked him inside it.

  _“I believe this is appropriate,”_ Juno had grimaced, watching as little Lydia had finished hammering the final bolt on the wooden door. _“Not that you’re my responsibility, but I think repercussions are in order for letting him loose.”_

  _“I’m sorry,”_ Lydia had mumbled, shuffling her feet beneath that awful red monstrosity he had dressed her in. _“I just...I just wanted to-”_

  _“Help?”_ Juno had barked, taking a long drag on her cigarette. _“Little girl, if you had wanted to help, actually_ **_wanted_ ** _to, then you shouldn’t have said his name! How was this ever going to be a better solution than doing what the handbook said? You did read it, after all!”_

  _“I panicked!”_ Lydia had hurled back, raising her voice a little to prove to Juno that she wasn’t entirely at fault. _“How was I supposed to remember that I needed to draw a door and specifically say that I was present on behalf of the Maitlands, once more proving I was with them! They were rotting away on Delia’s kitchen table! No offence, but your system for exorcism emergencies are awful.”_

  _“That’s not even what it says in the damn handbook!”_ Juno had glowered at her, waving the cigarette around as if it were a weapon. _“You living are always so reckless, you don’t realize how good you’ve had it till you’re dead!”_

 “You living are always so reckless,” Lydia scoffed, taking a swig of juice directly from the carton. “If she was powerful enough to lock him in the model after all that, why didn't she just do that in the first place? _Bitch_.”

 The house was in pitch darkness. Lydia had no idea what time it was, let alone what day of the week. She sighed, chucking the carton back into the fridge without bothering to check if she closed the door properly and shuffled her aching feet back into the living space filled with Delia’s grotesque creations. She grabbed her bag from the spot by her shoes which, she noticed, had formed a very large puddle on the textured floor. Grinning a little to herself at the horrified face of Delia forming in her mind at this observation, she began to clamber the stairs. Upon reaching the top, she looked in the direction of the attic - as she always did, every night. She half expected to see him there, leering down on her. She shuddered, hurrying into her own bedroom.

_____________

 Curled atop black sheets, Lydia skimmed through the pages of the book she was attempting to amuse herself with. Giving it up as a bad job, she flung it at the foot of the bed, instead, she picked up her camera and began to browse the many images she had snapped that morning. It seemed like a whole lifetime ago. She yawned, rubbing her eyes and recoiling almost instantly. Her makeup had rubbed into them, making her eyes water mercilessly. Half blinded, she stumbled to her vanity, scrambling for a makeup wipe - something, anything to soothe it!

 “Aargh! Fuck!” She cried out, feeling her hand begin to weep. She sucked on her finger, tasting exactly what she had suspected. Flickering her eyes open by a fraction, she dared to squint at the damage. Blood was everywhere, dripping down her arm, blending with the cotton sleeve of her dress. “ _Shit_.”

 Her bathroom light was on in a second. Still half blinded, Lydia ran one hand under the tap, attempting to remove a makeup-wipe from its packet with the other. Upon her success, she clamped it over her streaming eyes and let out a breath of frustration, feeling her tension flow away like the bloody water down her drain. She would laugh about this in the morning, it was just one of those things.

 After her finger had stopped bleeding, she finished up the job with her makeup and, soon, moisturized and feeling utterly exhausted, Lydia flicked off her bathroom light and closed the door behind her with a soft click. Almost at that very same moment, she heard a soft thump from the ceiling. Her gaze rose to look at the plastered roof above her head, her heart pace quicking a little. She knew it was just the pipes, they did this every night, but it didn’t make the whole experience any less anxiety-inducing.

 Her room was pitch black, having neglected to turn on lights while reading. For one thing, it explained why she had struggled so much looking at it, and for why her eyes had ached so. It was her fault for the whole thing. At that moment, it occurred to Lydia that she hadn’t registered the culprit for her injury. Taking a few steps towards her vanity, she flicked on the small lamp situated to the left of the mirror; illuminating the dark blackwood with an eerie yellow glow. Her stomach dropped.

 There was nothing out of place on her vanity. No possession moved, or fallen, or broken. But the elephant in the room was made obvious instantaneously. If only she had been able to see earlier. Her mirror was shattered, shards of glass littering her table like deadly snowflakes kissing fresh morning grass. She took a step back in alarm, horrified at her discovery. How could this have happened? Did her mirror spontaneously implode? She had locked the house that very morning and there was no sign of a break-in. What’s more, what burglar breaks a mirror and leaves? Unless that was some weird fetish she had yet to discover, Lydia was certain this was no simple trespassing incident. However, she could not help but repeat one phrase over and over again in her terrified mind:

  _“What if it was him?”_

 She had grabbed the fire poker she kept beside her bed in an instant. It felt like a foolish weapon, but up against him, anything was better than nothing. She had to check the attic. There was no other way around it.

 Lightning flashed, illuminating the hallway as she crept out of her bedroom door, rain hammering down on the roof. It sounded like applause, horrid, cold applause that, perhaps, this was her demise. Was she walking to her doom, right into the lion’s den? Thunder rumbled up ahead. Laughter, to accompany the applause. She shivered.

 The infamous staircase loomed before her. She felt like a child again, but curiosity was replaced with concern. She hadn’t stood here in four years since she and Juno had locked him away. There was no way he could have gotten out. She was being dramatic. She raised her eye line and felt as if her guts had pooled onto the floor. Another flash of lightning showed the true display before her.

The door, the bolts; all of it had been rent off their once-respected hinges and screws. It could. After all, only mean one thing. It would be foolish to deny it.

  _He had found a way out._

 


	2. Utterly Alone

Lydia’s foot rested on the bottom-most step of the staircase, her breath resting hitched in her throat. She’d be mad to go in there, like bait walking into a lion’s den; but the incomprehensible fact that he was out would not allow for such cowardice. She had to know, she _had_ to make sure he wasn’t running riot in the Maitland’s attic. At the very least, she owed them the security knowing their possessions were safe and sound since she did, after all, own this house now and, poltergeist or not, she was responsible for anything that happened to it before the Maitland’s potential and anticipated return. As horrible as it had been for all these years, knowing he was up there - waiting - she had grown to feel less alone in the empty halls of Delia’s design. It wasn’t fair - but then again, _life_ wasn’t exactly ‘fair’ either.

She took a brave step forward, then another, and another. Eventually, she was almost pressed against the door, just like she had been all those years ago; trying to catch a peek at the two faces she had seen from the front quad of the house. Now that she was closer, she could see that the bolts and locks she had spent all those hours hammering and nailing into the wood were hanging loose, held together only by fragmented pieces of splintered wood and bent nails. She gulped, the very thought of _how_ those small metallic guards of security had come to such a defiled state. Now that she had seen this, there didn’t seem to be much choice in the matter. Placing a shaking hand against the door, she twisted the porcelain handle, allowing the dark, cracked wood to swing open enough for her to slip through.

The room was exactly as it was the night of the failed wedding. The half-demolished model Adam had worked so hard on tucked away in the corner, loose pieces hanging off hither and thither with an air of decay appropriate for it’s expected inhibition. She edged closer towards it, a little confidence regaining as the storm continued to rage outside. Perhaps the bolts and locks on the door had spontaneously severed? The naive hope that, maybe, he was still trapped inside foolishly allowed to he stand this close to the model that she could see every minute detail Adam had carefully handcrafted for all those years, covered by millions of specs of dust. She felt a pang of guilt that such beautiful masterpiece had become a forlorn prison for the very man responsible for their extended damnation down in the Neitherworld.

She hadn’t inspected the model this closely in years; at least not since the day she had first entered the attic, in a manner of curiosity that would have slaughtered even the bravest of cats. Feeling tears sting her eyes, she sniffed a little too quickly and found that the foul and dank air, heavy with dust, filled her nostrils, her head reeling from this sudden amount of unexpected oxygen. She stumbled on the spot, gagging as she tried to regain some composure to her state, her eyes swimming with tears. Wiping them, she blinked back down at the model, her nose wrinkled. A minute sign, stuffed into the artificial grass of the graveyard caught her eye. She looked at it, puzzled, leaning in to read what it said. She had never seen this sign in the graveyard down the hill, let alone back when the model was last up-to-date. Squinting, her eyes still watering a little, she read it and felt her heart plummet. 

_Turn around, bitch._

She didn’t have to. A hand had grabbed her by the nape of the neck, forcing her into the model so that she was bent over it, her arms splayed and stabbed by tiny figurines. She cried out, the shock and indignity of it unbearably overwhelming. She could hardly move, the hand holding her down was far too strong for her to consider fighting; but Lydia was no damsel. She was terrifying to those who knew her only by face and she, of all people, knew better than to try and forcefully remove an attack like this. But something, a horrible nagging voice in the back of her brain told her she knew this hand. This hand, that was aware of her deepest secrets, her darkest of thoughts. This hand, and the person connected to it knew more about her than perhaps anyone dead or alive. She closed her eyes, a smile creeping across her lips as she went limp under his grip.

“Long time, no see,” she croaked.

Betelgeuse’s eyes were ablaze with hatred. His hand was pressing down so hard on Lydia’s neck that, with even the slightest bit of pressure, he could have easily snapped it. There was something about those first words to him, the first she had uttered since “ _help them_ ” all that time ago that got him all the more riled up. With a snarl, he released her, springboarding his weight off of hers, leaving her bent over the model. After a few moments, she raised her upper body gingerly, turning to face him, rubbing her neck. There was no fear in her face, not a glimpse of the tell-tale terror that he had been deprived of for so long. It was humiliating. If he had any to bleed, his blood could have boiled seeing her, standing there bold as brass and - of all things -  _free_. He glared down at her, noticing how much she had grown from the scrawny brat into a much taller, more detailed individual, but still - no less - a brat.

She seemed to be out of words, and, for a moment, he thought maybe he _had_ hurt her more than intended. His anger - although still paramount - lost it’s edge and the desire to _hurt_ , to physically harm vanished. She was mortal - ah, yes, he had forgotten that teeny tiny detail. This wasn’t like hunting down a bastard in the Neitherworld, no, this was like murder: ‘Bio-Exorcism’ - the very thing at which he excelled. But he didn’t want to hurt her, oh no...not _yet_ , anyway. First of all, he wanted answers, and he wanted them **now**. Opening his mouth to hurl his first words at her in four years, to prick her skin with a phrase that would hurt more than any physical violence, he found himself rudely interrupted.

“So, how’d you do it?” She asked, with an heir of a mother telling off a child. She had folded her arms across that pale chest of hers, giving him a look so patronizing that the furious Betelgeuse blanched, his emerald eyes flashed dangerously. How dare she. How fucking _dare_ she stand there and question that of all things! Did it even matter? He was out now and ready to make her beg for forgiveness! She should be scared, should be trembling with horror at the very thought of his presence. Maybe he was losing his touch. He said nothing, his eyes still boring into hers. She didn’t so much as flinch. He would have to try a different tactic. 

“ _Well_?” She said.

Oh this was just _too_ fucking rich. His lip curled nastily. She wanted to play, huh? He could play, he could play her like a violin until her pretty little strings snapped and recoiled. Without so much as a warning, or even a word, he darted forward, grabbing her once more, twisting her dark hair up in his hands. “Look at whatcha’ become, huh,” he leered, pulling her hair so hard that her head lurched, exposing the pale skin of her neck to the roof of the attic. “Ain’t no kiddo no more, are ya?” His tongue poked out between yellow, rotting teeth; flicking ever so slightly in a fashion almost snake-like. “Seems like it’s jus’ you n’ lil ol’ me in this big house, huh?” Questions. So many of them. He wouldn’t start stating facts until she started behaving properly. But, nevertheless, a lesson cannot be taught without some information to go off of. “I guess ya’ could say’m back to take what’s rightfully mine, _honey_.” He was practically breathing down her ear and could feel her shaking slightly in his grip. That was more like it. 

The horribly suggestive comment made Lydia’s stomach lurch sickeningly. This was real. This was really happening. Her nightmares were becoming a reality, and she was utterly alone in this huge house. Utterly alone, with _him_ . Yet, in spite of herself, in spite of her situation; her neck starting to ache again from the way he was pulling her hair, Lydia laughed. She actually _laughed_ ; her knees weakening beneath her and heart pounding. A short, spiteful sound broke free of her dry lips, cracking like a whip in the freezing, heavy air. It wiped the sickly satisfied expression right off of the face of her custodian in an instant. He hadn’t expected this.

“ _Kiddo_ ?” She chuckled, her eyes wide with disbelieving madness. Although she was fighting hard not to show it, not to let him have such a satisfaction; her worst nightmare was coming true. So, she did what she always did when faced with a situation less than ideal. Intimidate. “How old are you again, like four hundred? Pretty sure everyone is a _kid_ to you.” She dared veer her head in his direction, her smile wide and unhinged. She looked absolutely crazy. Batshit insane. For the first time, Betelgeuse was actually taken aback. Never, in all his years as a professional nuisance had anyone ever made him uncomfortable. There was something deeply unpleasant about the way she was looking at him. It was the kind of expression one would associate with a person preparing for murder, and he, himself, was all too familiar with it. But he couldn’t let her know how he felt, could not let her have the upper hand in this weird reunion. 

“ _Six_ hundred, actually,” he sneered, leaning in all the more close to her, giving her less leeway than she had originally established. “But who’s countin?” There was barely any space between them now. She was panting slightly, her upper back arching to support the strain on her neck. 

“So, what now?” She smirked, the conviction that this was the end, that she had finally met her maker allowed for her to play the role of the coy damsel. She knew the answer, or, at the very least, she thought she did. “You gonna **kill** me, huh?” Her eyes were glued to his. She hadn’t blinked in an alarmingly long time. Once more, he gifted her his silence. She could wait for an answer a little more. He had waited over four entire human years, after all. Eventually, predictably, his face twitched, as if pondering her childishly-phrased question. Perhaps he was reminiscing their last encounter, back when she was so much younger, so _deliciously_ naive.

Lydia couldn’t help but be reminded of rewinding a VHS to return it to the beginning of the film. Oddly enough, it wasn’t greatly unlike their situation; the strange familiarity, reopening wounds up after a healing period, an inevitably closed chapter. It was déjà vu, the likes of which Lydia - for one - had certainly never experienced. Then without so much as a warning, he dropped her. She fell, her knees hitting the floor with an unforgiving thud. A gasp escaped her, the shock of his action knocking the little confidence she had dared let loose while he convicted her to his will. She looked up, her hand massaging her neck as the aftermath of the pain finally settled. 

He stood there, looming over her like a dark cloud. A thunderstorm that could erupt any second, joining the currently raging weather outside in a perfectly planned synchronized dance. His left hand lashed out, grabbing her by the chin to raise her face directly upright. His fingers cupped her jaw in a manner of cynical perfection. “How’bouts I answer yer first question _first_ , huh?” He said, playing with her face, moving it gently this way and that. Squeezing her cheeks a little, he manipulated her mouth to move as he gracefully possessed her for just a moment, his own words tumbling from her rosebud lips. 

“ _Oh please, please enlighten me with your wisdom, your unspeakable wisdom, I am blessed to be graced with your presence and godli-_ ” 

“Well, get on with it then.” 

He almost dropped her. How, _HOW_ was this even possible? No one had ever been able to break free of his possessions before. This was unheard of, practically blasphemous! He stared at her, unable to speak, still holding her face in that weird, belittling manner. She hadn’t reacted to his hold, still, she stared at him, unreadable, patient and unspeakably beautiful. He decided now was not the time to allow her the satisfaction of knowing she had broken his spell. Perhaps she hadn’t realised, perhaps she had wanted to say those things, after all. _Yes, that was it_ , he decided, relieved. _Women_. 

“Oh, babes, babes, _babes_ ,” he hissed raking a fingernail ever so gently down her left cheek, smirking at how she tried to stare him down, sensing her fear - the fear that she _should_ feel if she had any common sense at all. “Where’s the fun in that, when I can show ya, huh?” 

The room around them seemed to ripple, the walls seeping onto the floor, colours mixing into shades indescribable by the human eye or tongue. Lydia’s body tensed, fear blanketing her already paranoid exterior. Then, a little confused, she realised they were merely in the ground floor of the house; the storm had ceased raging, a calm summer evening sending blissful waves of warmth through the half-open windows. She shifted her gaze to look up at the ghost, still on her knees. He was smirking, looking straight back at her without so much as a flinch.

“This is a sight I could get used to,” he growled, running a hand through her hair. With a flash, Lydia seized his hand and snapped it backwards, causing a sickening crunch to reverberate around the room. He howled, springing away from her, his eyes wild and flashing dangerously. “You little bitch!” He spat, massaging the hand that was now bent a perfect-180 on his decrepit wrist. He was being oh so dramatic, he knew it, It hadn’t really hurt - although it would be wrong of him to deny the shock she had caused him. What a brave fool she was, thinking this would put him out of action; and there she was, she hadn’t even so much as _moved,_ the silly thing, still kneeling there on the floor, looking at him with an expression close to murder. _Cut_ e. But there was no time for this now - no, not when the show was about to start.

Lydia was glowering at him, clearly unimpressed by his statement. Her apparent madness had vanished, the façade fading faster than the illusion of appearing downstairs had. But something wasn’t quite right. She looked around, placing a shaking hand to the floor to support her weight as she stood up, absorbing the sight that befell her. They were still in the house, but it looked cleaner, fresher. The layers and layers of dust that had built up since her parent’s had fled was no longer there. It looked - for lack of a better word - brand new.

The horrible decor Delia had insisted on installing over the Maitland’s homely - if not grandma-ish - furnishings shone in a green light seeping from the extended area they had so frequently eaten at. Lydia remembered the shrimp. All too well. Curiosity piqued, she pushed past Betelgeuse to peek around the corner, her eyes widening at the sight before her. The exorcism, happening right there as if it had never occurred before now. She could see her younger self, so pure, so _naive_ , distressed at the sight of her beloved ghostly friends writing in the air above her. 

“They’re dying!” She screamed, her little face horribly aglow with the sickeningly garish light surround herself and the table of useless onlookers. Maxi-Dean sure had nerve, retaliating at her like that - as if he knew better than her, she who had read the damn handbook. Present-day Lydia’s fist clenched. She had forgotten about him, his pompous exterior ways that had assisted her father’s corruption into an anxious alcoholic, the stress of success weighing heavy on his shoulders. What ever had happened to him after he had gone - quite literally - through the roof? Brushing the thought aside, she continued to watch, hardly noticing the Poltergeist’s presence as he appeared behind her. 

“Nice view, huh?’ He whispered, making her jump. He laughed darkly, standing just behind her right shoulder to peer over it at the scene before them. “I brought ya back to the night it aaaallllll went down.” The drawn-out ‘all’ was obviously to emphasise a point, the point of his capture and imprisonment in Adam’s model. The sarcasm in his voice was enough to make the hairs on Lydia’s neck stand up as if a chill breeze had swept her away into an oblivion of unpleasant premonition. He was wicked, making her feel like this. He had no right to penalise her for simply protecting herself. Besides, it was _Juno_ who had physically trapped him; Juno, who had appeared out of nowhere, hardly introduced herself as thus and forced Lydia into acts of borderline child labour.

“You do realise that none of this is my fault, right?” She said, having the nerve to turn her gaze from the scene to whisper back at him, her eyes narrowed. “Why pick on me when the ‘big guns’ put you in detention?” 

Oh, she was just _too_ much. Standing there, talking down on him yet again. He bit back the retort he longed to throw at her, deciding that patience and a less-cynical approach and response would get him exactly what he wanted. The fox - clever as he was - tested the waters of her tolerance.

“Just ya wait,” he hushed, turning her surprisingly gently to face the scene again. “You’ll see.”

The desperate little girl had fled the scene of the exorcism and rushed to the edge of the model, searching frantically. Her face, pale and terrified looked conflicted as if all rationality had abandoned control of her movements. She found what she was looking for, as older Lydia knew, she had seen the face of the man standing so close behind her she could almost feel his chill. She had found Betelgeuse.

“ _Help them, please_.” 

There was a pause. The Lydia not standing by the model, who was reliving this entire event, was deadly quiet. She knew what happened from here, that stupid deal she would make, the deal that would land her standing in this very position, years later. How could she have been so stupid?   

“S’almos’ like it was yesterday,” Betelgeuse sighed beside her, his voice laced venomously with sarcasm, “Ya’ know, just like when ya double-crossed me, n’ stuffed me in the fuckin’ model.” 

At this, Lydia rolled her eyes so hard her pupils almost saw the back of her skull. She wasn’t here for his petty mind games, no less their purpose to cause doubt of her motivation. “Need I remind you, _yet again_ , that it was **Juno** who _physically_ put you there?” 

“Juno schmuno,” he huffed, snorting into his jacket. “Yer a lier; look at'cha,” he pointed at the small, younger Lydia with a dangerously sharp claw, an expression of disgust on his face. “Practically plottin’ weren't’cha? N’ to think I took ya for someone who might understan’ me .” He shook his head in feigned disappointment. “Sucks, babes.”   

Lydia took a deep breath in a valiant effort not to respond and channelled all her energy into focusing on the scene before her. The minute Betelgeuse within the model was egging her younger self on, the words hauntingly familiar. The line about Valentino was even less appealing now than it had been - if that was even possible. She felt her stomach lurch in disgust. With an almost maternal instinct, one that Barbara would have deeply approved of - she noted - she looked directly at her younger counterpart, as the girl scrunched up her eyes in preparation for the name that would tumble from her small, rosy lips. 

 _“Betelgeuse…”_  

Something within Lydia stirred. It wasn’t recklessness, no, it felt far too much like realisation, a sudden awakening of the mind. What was she doing, just standing here as useless as one of Delia’s ghastly, abandoned sculptures? 

 _“Betelgeuse…”_  

Lydia lunged forward, her hand desperately groping for the arm of her past spectra. “NO!” She screamed, toppling over, as she phased through the shape of the girl she was, who she had lost many years before. She fell to the ground, her body half in and half out of the child’s form. She felt foolish, desperation had clawed at her to do the impossible, to try and change the past. She would have cried had she not been so proud. She pushed herself up, the cruellest sound of all erupting behind her.

Betelgeuse’s laughter was the worst of all. The harsh sound could have woken the dead, almost animalistic in sound, it shook the glass in the window panes. “Don’t be stupid!” He guffawed, throwing his head back to hard it almost fell off. “S’just an illusion, an apparition of the past.” He was laughing so hard that it was hard to distinguish what he was saying, but the message was pretty clear. He was thoroughly enjoying watching her scramble. 

She couldn’t even look at him. He was right, she was an idiot to think she could change the past. She felt her nose tingling with tears that longed to brim her eyes. What had she ever done to deserve this? 

“Who said that?” 

Lydia froze. No, there was no way, surely she had heard wrong? Betelgeuse had stopped laughing too, his stillness behind her making her almost certain that she hadn’t imagined it. Had sweet-sixteen-year-old Lydia really just spoken to the abyss? Asking if she had heard right; that she had really heard her future-self? Lydia looked up as quickly as she dared, her eye-line raising to look towards the vision of her past. This was impossible, no one could change the past! Tentatively, her heart hammering, she got to her feet, dusting off the hem of her dress. 

Ghosts, magic, the existence of an after-life? If all these things, all these impossible things could happen, then surely this too could be real. She had to try, even if it cost her another bashing to her pride. The poltergeist behind her hadn’t so much as twitched. He was deadly still, practically revealing his fear that - maybe - this really was possible.  

  
She swallowed. “Lydia,” her voice so so dry that it cracked, adding all-the-more suspense to the situation at hand. “Lydia, _don’t do it_.”


	3. There's No Place Like Home

Sixteen-year-old Lydia was just as pale as she was nervous; looking around wildly for the face of her guardian angel. Was she just imagining it? Maybe it was all in her head, probably, or just her conscience and sense of rationality vocalizing itself. She glanced down at the minute poltergeist, still perched on the edge of an anonymous headstone. To her surprise, he looked shaken, glancing to the left of the room where the sound had erupted. His eyes were darting wildly, pupils dilated and looking something close to fearful. This didn’t help her case at all - had she really just imagined it? 

“Who said that?” The childish question seemed ill-fitting for the situation. If someone had really said that, had really screamed ‘no,’ surely they have done something to stop her by now.  Physical force was always more effective, and, at this point, if it hadn’t have been for Betelgeuse’s reaction, she wouldn’t have even bothered to follow-up the sound. She lowered her gaze back to ‘the-ghost-with-the-most’, sighing, knowing what she had to do. 

“Beetle-”

“Lydia! Lydia, don’t do it!”

There was absolutely no way she was imagining things now. That shout was loud and clear, cutting through the air almost as cleanly as one of Delia’s most choice shrieks of horror at practically anything Lydia’s did. She whipped around, a hand jumping to fiddle with her necklace in a fashion she always assumed when paranoia struck. She could feel her heart pounding, sweat beading beneath the gelled bangs upon her delicately lined forehead. 

“Babes, **babes** !” Betelgeuse had snapped out of his momentary trance, returning to the slick-talking, quick-thinking devil he had been since the night they met. “C’mon, ya gotta help me here - wait, no! Help ‘ _em_ !” He pointed wildly at the whitering forms of the Maitlands, crumbling right on top of Delia’s freshly waxed dalbergia wood table. Their sunken eyes, lifeless, empty, were rolling in their sockets - sweeping looks over Lydia every now and then. It seemed as if they hardly recognised her. “We gotta save ‘em, remember? Ya can’t do it without me - hell, _I_ couldn’t do it without me, but _me_ is stuck in ‘ere! Say my name babe, **c’mon**!” 

Tears stung the offending girl’s eyes, but she refused to let them break loose of their glassy restraints. She had two very clear options in front of her. Either she could agree to this ridiculous proposition of marriage, marry a dead-man, a criminal - no less, and save her friends and, perhaps, never see them again. Or, she could put a stop to all this and listen to reason. What were the chances that she could lead a normal life after marrying him? Her heart ached for the Maitlands, but would Betelgeuse even keep his word? She was panicking, her hands shaking at the thought of either result. A life without the Maitlands was not a life worth living, but a life _with_ Betelgeuse wasn’t a life at all. 

“Don’t play coy, c’mon, _c’mon_ , just say yes!” 

“No!” She had hardly had to think; the natural response had formed at her lips and burst forth with the momentum of a shot-gun. The race had started. This was right, _this_ was what she should do. No more would she suffer, no more would she be utterly alone. She wasn’t incompetant, relying on the help and powers of a dead man who - dare she add - might not even _help_ her at all. If anything, Lydia was a soul of longing to mean. She had no desire to be famous, rich or blissfully at peace, but she wanted to seek,  fall into some kind of a universal purpose to follow through. This had to be it; saving the Maitlands!

Hidden in the shadows, the present-day Lydia felt a grin break across her face for the first time in four years. _Yes!_ She punched the air, jumping a little at her victorious win. She turned to face the life-sized Betelgeuse, hands on her hips - triumphant. 

“Ha! _Ha_ !” She jeered, beaming. “Take that you asshole!” She was jubilant, overcome with happiness. Finally, the chance at a normal life - no more night terrors, the paranoia of being watched by someone, _something_ ; no more weird first-dates, where, she knew, she couldn’t bring them home. Haunted houses _screamed_ romantic. She had done the impossible, changing the past as if by the hand of a giant, invisible eraser; strange and unusual, as always, as predicted. 

“You fuckin’ idiot.”

A chill crept up her spine. That didn’t sound good. Of course, it would be foolish of her to assume he would scream furiously, curse her name and vanish in a puff of foul smelling smoke. But something about that low, unadulterated growl shook he; it, chilled her to the bone, to her very _core_ . What was he, _Betelgeuse_ , so afraid of?  

“Oh, so sorry,” she feigned the sarcasm, her only shield to the unprecedented uncertainty filling her veins; her heart hammering. “Did I just ruin your plans?” 

“No, ya just done fucked _everyone_.” His tone was deadly serious (pardoning the pun). It was bad enough having a boisterous, angry Betelgeuse on her tail; but a stone-cold, face-the-facts Betelgeuse? That was entirely new, uncharted territory. “Think about it, where you are today, every tiny lit’l detail ya know; it’s all ‘bout to change, n’ there ain’t shit ya can do about it.” He was pointing a large, mossy finger at her, his glare as putrid as his breath. “Butterfly effect.” 

“N-no,” Lydia stammered, a dry laugh undeservedly escaping into the night air. “No, I’ve just foiled your big-scheme! I can save the Mailtands myself, they won’t go to the Neitherworld if they don’t break the rules! I’m helping them!” 

There was no reaction from Betelgeuse. Not a sound., no snort of disproval, or casual bout of patronising indifference. He didn’t even look at her. Hands in pockets, he stared at a floorboard as if hoping it would swallow him whole.

He didn’t have long to wait.

A deafening, echoing crack erupted within the confined space, a startled 1988 Delia shrieking, clutching at the hat atop her artistically slicked hair. 

“EARTHQUAKE!” She screamed, scrambling to position herself beneath the table as another loud explosive _bang_ reverberated throughout the room, causing glass ornaments, mirrors and some of Delia’s most delicate, prized (and horrible) sculptures to shatter. A huge, gaping hole in the centre of the room was forming, swirling grotesquely, as lightning struck the scene, sending bits and pieces of the house flying this way and that. A vile green-brown light burst from the ground, illuminating off the Skip Trowel walls, adding depth to the already textured surroundings. The world - their world, had split, and was baying for blood. 

“What’s happening?!” The young Lydia cried, pulling on the beaded necklace situated around her thin neck. She had darted over to the table upon which the Maitlands - now barely recognisable - continued to writhe. “Barbara? Adam?” Their lack of response only charged her panic like an electrical force. Time was running out. Fast. 

She had grabbed the handbook from Otho’s large grip without so much as a ‘please may I,’ and began flicking through the pages at a speed unmatched by the howling winds outside. There had to be something, something here to help her. What use was a book written by ghosts for ghosts, with an entire passage on exorcism inside, if it didn’t even contain a counteraction?! The screams of the people around her barely distracted the search - although they didn’t help much either. 

“Look what yer did.” His whisper was barely audible, especially not over the raging storm within the house. Lydia looked away from the pathetic scene towards the man who had squatted - unwanted - in the attic, the Maitlands attic, for four years. Betelgeuse still wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixated on the same spot where the floorboard had once been. _Had he know this would happen?_  

“What’s it to you?” Grown Lydia snapped, unyielding to his less-than-helpful comment. “This still would have happened if I’d said no to you then, there’s no difference.”

“God, ya livin’ are so... _so_ -” He was clearly struggling for a word sharp enough to cut into her, but he seemed unable to finish his sentence. “This is the past we talkin’ ‘bout. Once it’s done, it’s done, tryin’ta change it ain’t gonna be pretty!” He was leering at her now, but the sight was barely intimidating, given his lack of a conclusive point. The storm was quickening, gathering speed; and only convincing Lydia more that something was deeply, _deeply_ wrong. But, no, it couldn’t be. She had done the right thing; how else would she have been able to communicate to her past self? Changing the past was impossible, right? But, then again, weren’t ghosts? 

“Barbara!” The scream jolted Lydia out of her trance in an instant. Looking back up at the table situated a few metres from them, she could see that the form of poor Barbara Maitland had collapsed upon the rich polished wood, utterly still, utterly lifeless. With another loud thud, Adam joined his wife; their rapidly decayed bodies crumbling, oozing fluids undistinguishable in the green glare illuminating from the gradually-growing hole in the floor. 

“No!” Lydia gasped, her hands clamped over her mouth. “No, oh God no; Barbara? Adam!” She was glued to the spot by her own horror, tears stinging her wide eyes. She couldn’t just stand here, useless! She had to act, she had to save them! If she had been able to contact the past through some weird veil, she could resurrect the dead, no problem.  

Blinded by her own naivety, she blundered over towards the decrepit forms of her beloved ghostly friends, attempting to grab at their wedding clothes, jolt them awake. Her face fell as she found she could not touch them, unable to rouse a sense of certification of their state of being. They were dead - no, past death. They had been exorcised. 

_It was all her fault._

The wind was howling worse than ever, gathering speed. The faces of Maxie-Dean, his frilly-curtain-of-a-wife and her own father were bathed in the bright glow of the swirling vortex beneath their feet, which had no swallowed up the model - the miniature, enraged poltergeist, trapped within it, screaming his bloody promises of revenge, imprecating the name of Deetz. Then, it clicked. 

 _Betelgeuse_. 

“Do something!” She whipped around to face him, tears streaking down her face. “Please, _please_ help them!”  

He stared at her, an mixed expression of anger, disbelief and disgust lining his aged features. He was stood on the edge of the gaping, whirlpool of dirt, wood and dust, eating up the the house piece by piece. “Why would I do that, when ya jus’ got _exactly_ what yer wanted for all these years?” He grimaced at her, as another loud crack shook the room, causing the ceiling to crumble, blanketing the Maitlands and the screaming guests. 

Little Lydia, now more horrified than ever was looking from one to the other of them, utterly perplexed. It seemed she had been granted the ability to see them, not unlike her medium-tendencies of envisioning the dead. She was mouthing words they could not hear above the many sounds surrounding them; but her eyes were wide, her face pale. Whatever she was saying would be sure to haunt her for the rest of her life - although she did not know it yet. 

“I didn’t want this! I wanted **you** gone, I wanted **you** out of my life for good, and yet **you’re still here**!” Lydia could have ripped her own hair out at this point. Was it too much to ask to have a normal life?! No Maitlands, no house and now no guarantee that he would be out of the picture, per her actions. What had she done to deserve this? 

She was crying. She stood, shaking, shivering in the freezing wind, dust clouding her vision. She could have argued that fragments of the house, of the world, had entered her eyes, causing them to stream unforgivably; yet it was inevitable that her emotional state was the cause for such distress. What were the chances of wishing for nothing but happiness and receiving pain? Her morality - not so much in a state of dissarray these days - was corrupt, sure; but to be repercussed with  damnation like this for both herself and the Maitlands? This was too much! No matter what she did, no matter what she tried, they would be doomed for all eternity at either the hand of Juno, or herself. _And, it was all because of her._

Darkness was in her mind again. Darkness she had thought she had grown out of and thought had long since left her. Nothing made sense anymore, she felt empty inside - dead - as lifeless as the two shells, crumpled on the table, that had once possessed the Maitlands. What more could she do now? She could call Juno, that demon of a woman who would undoubtedly face her with a classic: _‘and what exactly am I supposed to do about it?’_ kind of glare. She could give in to her thoughts, jump into the great pit of ripped space-and-time and vanish to...goodness knew where. _‘Goodness’, what a word._ Or - her stomach churned at the very thought - she could make a deal...with _him_. 

Eyes screwed tightly shut, Lydia attempted to rationalize her thoughts into something cohesive, something that made sense. But nothing seemed to make sense anymore, nothing seemed to be remotely in-order. Life was following a plan designed to keep her in the darkest of places, followed by demons and spirits and voodoo and stupid shit, sent to curse her for being human. She was fiddling with her hands - as she did when she was so close to breaking point. It seemed so unfair, so unfair to her happiness; but the Maitlands _were_ her happiness. Lord knew, she owed it to them. 

She opened her mouth, preparing to call his name, to make an unforgivable deal, when the floor beneath her gave way. Lydia screamed, her limbs flailing as she plunged into endless darkness. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, Lydia fell and fell, tumbling, her dress rippling all around her; a failed parachute. She seemed to descend forever, the darkness eating her whole. 

With a soft thump, she felt herself connecting with something like earth. It was soft, cushiony. Her eyes snapped open, only to find that she was alone, completely and utterly _alone_ \- and had been for quite some time. Whatever had been left of the house had vanished, but the swirling clouds of poisonous green remained. Had she really fallen at all? Perhaps the clouds were intoxicating her mind to the point of hallucination. But what did that matter now? 

“Wh...wait, where am I?” In her haze she looked around, fearful and unsure. “What’s going on?” Nobody answered her foolish plea for clarification, the abyss around her was as cruel as it was obscure. Lydia had been self-reliant for so many years, and had finally met her match. 

There had to be a way out of here. There had to be, there was _always_ a way out - she had learnt that the hard way. “You are never utterly alone,” she whispered to herself, as if praying. “You are _never_ utterly alone!” 

Getting to her feet rather clumsily, the stood up, absorbing the place she was in. She couldn’t see anything, just endless green fog swirling around her. 

“Curiouser and curiouser…” she breathed. 

She began to walk, one trepid step at a time. Would she walk so far that she fell again? Or meet a door, a gate-way onto another room, another plane of existence. Or was she being stupid? That was the most logical solution. But, again, what was logical anymore? Ugh, her brain was starting to hurt. 

Had it been seconds, minutes, hours, _years_ since she had started walking? The black watch on her wrist had long-since stopped working, the hands ground to a halt in the pretty gold frame she cherished so dearly. There was no use for it. She knew what she had to do. 

Raising her head up, she looked at the darkening clouds, above her; their continued striking of the ground with bolts of lightning set to kill reminding her - horribly - of the way his wicked pranks seemed to glimmer with a malice to perfectly reflect his comedienne personality. 

Like Dorothy in Oz, she chanted the disgusting words to send her home:

“Beetlejuice...Beetlejuice...BEETLEJUICE!”


	4. Fool Me Thrice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I wanted to start this off by saying how utterly overwhelmed and appreciative I am for all the adorable comments I've been receiving both here and on 'The Apparition'. You have no idea how much it means to wake up, after a few hours sleep and a night of pounding out storylines that I keep doubting, to messages of encouragement and enjoyment. It's so touching and makes me wanna write more, so thank you! Y'all are the BEST! 
> 
> After getting into a mood where all I wanted to do was write, I sat in a cafe today to churn through some ideas and this was the product! The funny thing was that there were quite a few people in there too; either working or catching up with friends. It kinda made me laugh because they were all doing stuff that I'm sure was important, meanwhile, I was sat in the corner writing fanfiction skjskjs. I wouldn't have it any other way though, I'm so blessed to have the time I do to write right now!! 
> 
> Anyway, that aside, this chapter unveils more on the steadily building relationship between our two protags. It's weird writing them absolutely hating each other lol, but it would get boring for me to write them the same for every fic, but even more boring for y'all to read!! 
> 
> So, as always, please do enjoy!

That _bitch_.

Fuming, Betelgeuse stormed around his hovel (turned home) in the ground, working several holes into the muddy floor with his steal-toe boots. Didn’t she have the faintest idea what she had just done? Not even the tiniest inkling? To be perfectly honest (not that he ever was), he, himself, was not entirely certain on quite _what_ had happened tonight...or had it happened yesterday, or tomorrow? Time was a confusing and dangerous thing, even more so, now she had meddled with it. 

But he didn’t care about the consequences of the Maitlands or her pathetic excuse for parents; no, they could all go to hell - chances were that they had. But _her_. If Betelgeuse possessed blood, it would be boiling. She was an entirely different kettle of fish; a kettle that he wanted to smash to pieces and break and dent until it resembled a hunk of cheap copper. She had tricked him, right under his nose. The embarrassment was too much.  

That little _bitch_!

He was trapped, again; probably for good. This put an abrupt stop to his useless pacing. Not that he had ever felt, but it was finally starting to settle in; the reality of his position, the path of desolate he was doomed to endure for the rest of time. Death was unkind, but so was he. He slumped into the mouldy armchair he had spent so many lonesome nights in - occasionally accompanied by a materialised stripper for his own entertainment. The fabric was worn, ripped at the seams, and finished - spectacularly - with a few broken springs. 

 Aside from this particular ornament, the place was decorated in a fairly minimalistic style, although ‘style’ was not the right word to describe it. Currently, in the ironically titled ‘living space,’ was the very armchair in which he sat, a table littered with pamphlets of his own branding, sex hot-lines and about 20 beer bottles. On the wall was a broken shelf of old books, dating back to years forgotten by time. Through a weird arch in the wall was a kitchen, containing an unplugged fridge stocked with luke-warm alcohol, next to a stove burnt beyond recognition. And, through a small door in that room, was another tiny addition that looked as if it had been dug out by Betelgeuse after being buried. It was dark, warm and smelled strongly of tobacco. It contained only a bed, sagging in the middle and decorated with a few seedy magazines, tossed hither and thither atop the ripped duvet. _Home sweet home._

Letting out a low groan, Betelgeuse kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, scratching it horribly and dislodging a few of the empty bottles so that they tumbled onto the floor with a dull clink; not that he gave a shit, the place was already filthy. Well, everything was out of his control now. Time to sit and mope. He rubbed his forehead, something that happened out of instinct when he had nothing better to do with his time. Although he had plenty to spare, this particular exercise proved to be a pretty dull and meaningless use of infinite time. So, he turned to the second thing he usually did when he was bored...or busy... or _anything_ really. 

“Right, whadda we got here?” He mumbled, snapping his fingers to produce one of the magazines that had been piling up on his bed. The cover portrayed a lewdly clad woman, with breasts the size of Alaska. Her heavily airbrushed face was painted with a look of pathetic wanton lust, sucking on a large lollipop. _Perfect._

With a heavy clink, he undid his buckle; his fingers fiddling with the zip at the top of his pants for a moment, before reaching to grab at the member between his legs. The pages were flipped open and fell at a page somewhere in the middle, directed by a serious crease in the magazine’s spine. No sooner had he done this, however, he heard something. With a start, he looked around, somewhat confused. There was nobody else here. This was the afterlife abyss; no one came, no one left - except for him when he was called. Half shrugging, he looked back at the magazine, fully intent to finish what he started. 

_“Beetlejuice.”_

There was no mistaking that. That had rung loud and clear in his ears, the most beautiful sound known to anyone with good taste - namely, himself. But who was yelling his name to the skies as if reciting a prayer? No one else besides the monotonous-Maitlands had ever dared use it-except for…

_“BEETLEJUICE!”_

And there she was. Bold as brass, towering over his subsided form. She looked terrified, shaken beyond belief. So, she had fallen from the house too, huh? _Served her right._

Just as he was getting cocky with her situation, he realised his own position - which was very _cocky_ indeed. Crap. This was embarrassing. For her, anyway. 

“ _Babes_ , he sneered, withdrawing his hand from his pants as if burnt, tossing the magazine over his shoulder a lousy attempt to make it look like he had never had it in the first place. “Seems we jus’ keep on runnin’ into eachother, huh?” He was giving her a look of the utmost dislike; but that didn’t stop him from making a mockery of her, even in his inappropriate position. “Hate ta’ be the bearer of bad news, but yer s’posed to wait ‘til _after_ the weddin’ to check into the honeymoon suite...oh, wait,’ he mocked, standing up to his full height, now level with her. “Ya bailed.”

“ **I** didn’t bail,” she corrected him, trying to pretend she hadn’t just seen him halfway through getting off. “The version of me from the past did, and for good reason.”

“Yeah, n’ only because **you** meddled with yer past!” He spat, zipping up his fly angrily as if this settled the matter; re-buckling his belt to its former glory of existence below his gut. “Now, what brings ya to my _humble_ abode?” He pretended to curtsey, spreading his arms wide in a display of fake welcome. “Woulda cleaned up if I’d known ya were comin’. But, I also don’t care. I don’t like guests.” With a snap, the bottles covering the floor and table vanished and a dull light was restored to the room as if a switch had simply been flicked on the wall. 

Lydia studied his face. It was just the same as it had been the night of the first wedding; the night her life went to hell. He was disgusting. There was nothing remotely appealing about him; he reeked of self-righteousness and mould – two smells that complimented each other horribly. But, unfortunately for her, she needed this disgusting, self-centred being. She needed him, in a way she never thought she would. 

_She needed his help._

“Pity.” She said, shortly; not prepared to play along with his charade of house-warmness. “Look, I didn’t call you just to chat shit. I...I actually have a favour to ask of you.” 

Betelgeuse snorted, hacking up something that was swiftly concealed in his palm, stuffing it into his breast pocket. 

Lydia shuddered, utterly nauseated. Clearly, this entire display was conducted to unsettle her. She would never admit it as a success, presenting him with an expression of deigned neutral distaste. 

“So,” he chuckled, wiping the palm of his hand on his suit. “Yer swearin’ now, huh?”

“What?”

“Ain’t no kid no more, I get it,” he began to prowl around her, eyeing her up from every angle. 

Lydia closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe. As ridiculous as he was being, that didn’t stop her heart beating so fast it could have explode inside her chest. His gaze was chilling, one could pratically _feel_ it; but, it wasn’t penetrating. On the contrary, it was almost studious, taking in how she had changed, who she had become. For once, he wasn’t eye-fucking something. Perhaps he had changed somewhat during his time in the model. 

“Well,” he sighed, his hands on his hips, letting out a low whistle. “Yer certainly don’t _look_ like no kid no more either.”

_Nope. Still the same old pervert._

She turned to face him, without so much as an inkling of discomfort. If she was serious about what she said, about wanting – no, needing – his help; she had to act like it. “Cut to the chase,” she snapped. “Are you going to help me or not.”

“Lemme get this straight for a second here, huh,” he screwed up his eyes, as if pretending this was all too much and that he had to go over her proposal for the millionth time. “Ya fuck me over once, trappin’ me in that godforsaken model-”

“I told you, that wasn’t-”

“ _Then_ ,” he powered through, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Ya let me fall to my demise again, after fuckin’ me over, _again_ .” Each time he listed an offende he ticked them off of on a large dirty hand. “An’ _now_ , ya have the nerve, the fuckin’ **nerve** , to ask me for my help?” He dropped the act, his arms falling to his sides, a look of anger lining his aged face. “Nah, I ain’t feelin’ so generous.” He stomped away into the kitchen, the sound of the fridge door being wrent off it’s hinges echoing slightly within the confined space. 

Lydia sighed. She wasn’t so stupid as to think he would accept her request without some consequences. She was prepared to do whatever it took to help the Maitlands and – this time – her family along with them. Marriage was even on the table once more; ironic, considering how that had caused her to be in this mess in the first place. But any form of irony was something Lydia was growing accustomed to by now. 

“Wait,” she called after him, taking a tentative step forward. “ Look, I know this is ridiculous, but I just thought-”

“Ya though wrong then, didn’tcha?” He yelled, not even bothering to talk to her properly. He seemed –in short - pretty pissed. “I ain’t the carin’ type, babes. It’s a war-zone for the livin’ out there, ya either suck it up or fight for yerself.,” he spat. “Look where givin’ a shit has landed ya. Here. In this dump. With _me_.”

He had a point. There wasn’t much reason in beating-around-the-bush; these were cold, hard facts she was dealing with here. No matter what she did, whatever path of good or bad she tried to take, he was still stuck to her like gum on the bottom of a shoe. First forcibly marrying her, then lurking within the house and now this. No amount of conviction, smart-thinking or back-stabbing could pry him away from her. It wasn’t in her nature to repetedly try and get people out of her life, it just so happened that he was...well, _him_. 

Then, it hit her. How could she have been so stupid? The shock of the realisation almost made her physically stagger back; agast and oddly light-headed. The explination had been there, right in front of her, the whole time! It was likely that he was trying to get away from her as much as she him. This whole thing was just so... _stupid._ She couldn’t contain herself. 

Her laughter erupted, she couldn’t help it. It sounded warm, like a summer’s day;  so different to the shrieks of crazed expression she had released in the attic mere hours before. The noise startled the poltergeist, his attention immediately drawn to the explosion of joy coming from his sitting room. 

Betelgeuse poked his head out from the kitchen, wearing a look of mild concern. “What?” He scowled at her, clearly irritated by her inappropriate amusement. “What’s so funny?”

“S-sorry!” She howled, struggling to catch her breath. “It’s jus…it’s just that-“ she couldn’t carry the conversation from laughter, tears rolling down her face thick and fast. “Us…we’re inevitable!”

He was lost. “What are ya goin’ on about?”  

“No matter what I did to prevent it, we still end up in some weird, fucked up scenario.” She had managed to calm down a little, hiccupping herself back into submition. “Don’t you get it?”

“Get? Jus’ what the hell are ya rattlin’ on about, yer crazy!”

“Maybe I am,” she smiled, hugging herself gently. “But you’re not exactly sane yourself, are you?”

“You little-”

“But don’t you see? We’re just going to keep on running into each other, we have no choice! It doesn’t matter if you help me or not now. I know your name. I can call you whenever. I. _Want_.” 

He could have screamed. His curse was usually inconvenient for the sake of having to trick people into saying it. He loved trickery, he loved manipulation; but that didn’t mean it was any less of a pain-in-the-ass each time. But _this_? People didn’t usually live long enough to know and abuse his name. The only person who knew it at will was Juno, and she wasn’t exaclty about to call him for a cup of tea and cosy catch-up. Lydia, on the other hand, was a living, breathing specimine with complete and utter power over him. This was his worst nightmare. 

“I-”

“Admit it,” she beamed, just as annoyingly as she had done upon her successful attempt to change the past. She was looking him dead in the eyes, a shot glee glimmering within her own. “I’m more powerful than you right now.”

“N’ what’s to stop me from killin’ you right here right now?” He leered back, showing her all his grimy teeth. “You’d die knowin’ my name, n’ no one else.” It was a fruitless effort. He already knew the answer she could offer him.

“Kill me and you’re stuck here, _for good_.” She folded her arms. “It’s like you said: we just keep on running into each other.” She tilted her head a little, looking at him as if mildly intrigued. “So, I’m going to repeat my proposition. Will you help me?” 

He stood there, silent for quite some time. There were so many loopholes for him to slip through, but she was a smart cookie. There was no way she would consistently ask for his assistance if she knew how easily he could double-cross her. Unless she planned to double cross him yet again – although that alone didn’t surprise him. There wasn’t much for it, then. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Although, softening the blow was easy. 

“Fine.” He grunted, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But I have some conditions.”

Lydia gulped. She had been expecting this. “Sure,” she pretended to play it cool. “What do you have in mind?”

“First: When I’ve helped ya with...whatever it is, yer gonna help me get out. For good. I ain’t returnin’ to this shit hole again for the rest of time. Got it?”

“Clear as crystal,” she said, without missing a beat. “In that case-”

“ _Secondly_ ,” he cut across her, waggling a finger in her face. “As soon as we’re done, we’re done. You ain’t callin’ me back to do yer dirty work, or laundry, or whatever the hell ya can’t be arsed to do yerself.”

“Fine,” Lydia let out a dry laugh, finding his stubborness somewhat amusing. “Are you-”

"And finally,” he growled, lunging forward, holding her by the shoulders so close that she could smell his breath. He lent forward, placing his mouth directly beside her ear so that she heard every word. “If ya even think of double crossin’ me, for even a _second_ ...I will **kill** you on the spot. _Capiche_?”  

Nothing had ever frightened Lydia quite like those words. They were emotionless, murderous and extremely convincing. He wasn’t playing around, not this time. She tried to keep her cool, although the quickened pace of her heart was a dead giveaway. 

“Capiche.” She repeated, staring at the blank wall ahead of her. He had her bound as much as she had him. It was anyone’s game now. 

“Then lets get started,” he murmured, sending a quick lick to her earlobe before springing away to face her at a distance once more. “Now, what is it that requires my assistance so badly? _”_ He seemed almost in good spirits. 

“I need to save the Maitlands and my family. I think they’re in the Neitherworld...but I don’t know for sure. Either way, there’s no way I can do this alone.” 

“The Neitherworld, huh?” He looked delighted. “‘S been a hot minute since I’ve been _there_ .” He lept atop the armchair, causing it to groan with displeasure. “Say the magic words babes n’ we outta here. _It’s showtime_.” 


	5. A Nice Little Walk

“Okay,” said Lydia, trudging behind the poltergeist, stomping on the ground made up of ground dirt and small animal bones; the mass crunching horribly under her feet that were - to her great displeasure - still bare after her arrival back home the previous day. Following recent events, it was hard to say if any of that had ever even happened. Time felt elusive here, stagnant, yet horribly swift. “So, you’re telling me there _ is _ a way to get the Maitlands, Dad and Delia back safely?” 

 

“Yup,” he grunted, his hands shoved in his pockets, not bothering to look at her. “Suuure is.” 

 

“Then how would we do that exactly? Is there a doorway we go through, do we barge in? Oh, is there a spell, like the one in the handbook?”

 

“Ya talk too much,” was the stubborn reply. Having been pretty gobby himself earlier, the ghost no longer appeared to be one for conversation. “Anythin’ else ya wanna know? Maybe the answers to the universe or summin’?” 

 

“Wait, you  _ know _ stuff like that?” The astonishment in her voice was unlike anything he had heard thus far. The cheerfulness of a child promised a great surprise for Christmas; the secrets of the world and all that lay beyond was Lydia's toy of choice. 

 

_ Interesting.  _

 

“Maybe.” 

 

“Will you tell me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” 

 

There was no denying the stab of hurt in her voice. He finally turned to her, stopping dead in his tracks: 

 

“Because, if I told ya, yer brain would implode n’ so would anything physical ‘bout’cha.” The lack of concern in his voice was almost comical; he spoke with an air of concern parallel to telling someone he had finishing ironing their shirt. “Does that answer  _ anythin _ ’?” The idea that he might have installed some fright in her thrilled him, but he blanched upon seeing the unusual expression on her face. Her eyes were shining, the stars above reflected in them like the snowflakes within a festive globe. It appeared there was a pattern beginning to form here... 

 

“ _ Cool _ ,” She gasped, her fingertips resting on her bottom lip. 

 

**_Very_ ** _ interesting.  _

 

He studied her with an interest unlike anything previously initiated. What was it with her and this curiosity for anything out of the ordinary? It was borderline psychotic how she would gush and admire that which would cause the masses to audibly display their disgust. Nevertheless, they had things to be getting on with. There was plenty of time to ponder the strange and unusual girl once this whole thing was over. 

 

“Almos’ there,” he maundered, turning back to face the path ahead of them. “N’ watch yer step.” 

 

They walked in silence for the vast remainder of their journey. The surrounding purple darkness hummed an eerie melody of twilight, small bursts of light appearing in and out of the air as if clouded by mist. It was of beauty unlike anything Lydia had ever seen; a longing to explore it, to run away from her tour-guide and lose herself within the night pulled at her with a force, unlike anything she had ever experienced. The small path upon which they walked was surrounded by a silvery water-like substance that seemed too gelatinous to be a river. As the pathway got smaller and smaller, Betelgeuse’s comment about watching where she trod started to make more sense. 

 

“Where are we?” She gasped in awe, hitching up the hem of her dress to avoid it dragging within the water, as she tiptoed along the floor, wincing as the sharp little bones stabbed at her feet. 

 

“The Distillery.” He said, floating ahead of her, his boots too heavy to step as delicately as she. “A mixture of the livin’ ‘n the dead wind up here; usually outta accidental circumstance.” 

 

“Accidental...circumstance?” 

 

“Small critters runnin’ through doorways to the waitin’ room, fallin’ through portals, kids bein’ left unaccounted for - that sorta thing.” He continued to float ahead of her, his coat billowing slightly in his wake. “The silvery stuff is disconsolate: the essence of mournin’,” he said. “Touch it, ya lose all hope n’ yer down their with ‘em.” At this he turned, grinning, inspire of his words. “You’d be surprised how many folks get stuck down ‘ere...end up longin’ for a drink...they risk it all for a sip’o that shit.” He chuckled, darkly.

 

Still clutching the hem of her dress like a life-line, Lydia looked right back into those startlingly green eyes. She had stopped walking, leaving a few extra feet between them. He said nothing, still smirking at her surprised silence. At **last** , something that had shaken her! 

 

“Remember when we first met?” She whispered, still staring at him. “And you said you’d take me to the other side to find the Maitlands?”

 

“Vaguely,” he lied, fiddling with his ring between fingers inside his pocket. “Sad little thing ya were back then.” 

 

“Yeah, okay,” she brushed his needless comment aside like dust on the floor, rattling on. “So, this is where I would’ve ended up, right?”

 

“Possibly,” he sniffed, rolling his eyes. “But what does it matter, ya didn’t say my name anyway.”

 

“But you lied.”

 

“Welcome to my world, babes.”

 

“You knew that would kill me.”

 

“Only way to the other side, besides, ain’t that what ya wanted.”

 

“But why didn’t you just kill me yourself?” 

 

He stopped fiddling with the ring almost abruptly as he had started.  _ Oh _ . This was a bummer; what kind of fucked-up question was that?

 

“Look,” he huffed, “do ya wanna find yer friends or not?”

 

“Why didn’t you do it?”

 

“Ain’t gonna get anywhere at this rate…”

 

“Tell me!” 

 

“They’re probably in the lost soul’s room anyway, this is hardly gonna achieve anythin’ babes.” 

 

“ **Why didn’t you do it?** ”

 

“Might as well go ba-” 

 

“WHY?” Her scream echoed across the desolate land, loud and clear. She wasn’t giving this up, this stubborn tug of war. Her winning pull was evident, but Betelgeuse was a sore loser, the kind of loser who would drag it out for as long as it took to avoid the consequences. 

 

“Because,  _ sweetcheeks _ , yer was useful, a’ight?” His sneer was enough to convince even the most doubtful of questioners, but he’d had to try a little bit harder for little Miss Lydia; oh yes, she was a tough one. “Marriage n’ all that.” 

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Prove it.” 

 

Lydia’s fists were clenched. She hated him with all her being. She hated his stupid, twisted face; the way his eyebrows furrowed when he was feeling his most dangerous, his most wicked. She hated his taste in absurdly clashing patterns, the loose odds and ends of suit lining that hung (just as limp and as lifeless as him) off of his frame. The way he looked at her, like a stray dog finding a large juicy steak in the backstreet of a butcher's shop. She was prey to a soul prayed to by desperate souls, his name like fresh water in a desert on their lips. Lydia was a calm soul - for the most part. The bitterness that had developed over the past few years was more of a protective shield, a barrier of (what she called) ‘performance pride’ to cover up a childhood lost. Other than that, she was reasonable, honest and fairly likeable. But this guy, this  _ fucking _ guy, oh he really knew how to push her buttons. For the first time, maybe ever, Lydia knew what it was like to hate. To completely and utterly **hate** . 

 

“Ya can’t,  _ can ya _ ?” His leer showed all of his rotting teeth, lined up like rows of dead soldiers. “For all ya know, this entire trip is a lie; who’s to say I can bring the fuckers back? But desperation -  **that’s** the fuckin’ rub, huh?” He jabbed her shoulder with a clawed finger, but she did not budge. “Ya were so desperate to help them that yer didn’t even  _ consider _ th’posibility that I - powerful as I am - might not be able to come to the rescue. So,” he paused, scanning her, invasively, for what felt like the millionth time. “I s’pose, the real question here is: why do ya keep crawlin’ back to _ me _ ?” 

 

Lydia’s mouth opened to retaliate, closed and opened again; mouthingly wordlessly, outraged. He just didn’t know when to quit, did he? 

 

“I..uh,” she stammered, trying to think of a compelling reason, a jab at his pride to knock his confidence down a few bars. All the while, the man before her was moving closer, his hands still within his pockets. He moved with the unexpected grace of a fox, cunning and malicious. It was off-putting, to say the least. “Don’t be ridiculous, that’s-”

 

“The truth?” He was so close to her now that she could see ever detail of that face that she hated. “The truth, n’ yer know it.” He shoved her shoulder this time, causing her to stumble backwards a little in alarm. The back of her heels met the edge of the pathway surrounded by the glistening liquid swirling around them. One touch and she was toast, Betelgeuse knew that. But, had he realised how close she was? Maybe he did. Maybe he  _ did _ want her dead. 

 

“Ya gotta face facts, this shit ain’t fun n’ games no more. Ya know better than that; face it, whatever kinda stitch yer in, I can usually help. Guess I’m useful like that.” There was an edge to his voice Lydia had never heard before. It sounded hurt, defensive; the kind of tone a small child uses when sulking to a half-disinterested parent. 

 

“Useful?” She was astounded. The last thing she would call his sadistic nature was ‘useful.’ But buttering him up, find out more about his feelings - provided he felt at all - could aid her, even if she didn’t believe a word he said. “What do you mean, useful?” 

 

“Bio-exorcism,” he began, slowly at first, backing off to allow for her to regain a solid footing on the pathway, “ain’t jus’ killin’or scarin’ the livin’.” His gaze had long since left her face, choosing, in stead, to roam across the path until fixating on a solitary spine a few feet away. “S’bout possessin’ the livin’, makin’m see shit that ain’t there - kinda hallucinogenic-type. But it ain’t easy torturin’ souls without some kinda consequence.” His expression was entirely emotionless. Usually, there was a flicker of greed in his eyes, a sign of self-inflicted pride; this new and shell-like face he wore was unsettling. It was the most inhuman he had ever looked. 

 

“But, how did this make you useful?” Lydia asked, her voice soft, patient despite her questioning his motivation beforehand. 

 

“After ya get the credits, people ask ya to do all sorts’a shit for ‘em.” He let out a dry laugh, although there wasn’t anything particularly funny about his statement. “Eventually, ya loose any human in ya; it becomes easier to kill, n’ easier to say yes to every offer, request or job that comes yer way.” At this, he looked at her, his expression dark. “A doormat. A powerful fuckin’ doormat - n’ here’s the worst part,” he pointed a finger at her, knowingly. “The worst part is that ya don’t stick up for yerself in the way that yer should. It’s all selfish blab, but when people know yer name, they say n’ do what they like to make ya come runnin’ back.” 

 

“But…” Lydia’s tone was conditional. “Surely, that doesn’t make you any different from me…?” Cradling herself in her arms like a protective field, preparing for an outburst, she continued. “I was useful to you, just as I was useful to the Maitlands and my parents - obviously for different reasons, yours being the most selfish.”

 

“Sounds like me,” he grunted. 

 

“And - forgive my patronising - but you just said you also have to come running back. What I don’t understand is, what does this have to do with you killing me? I’m so confused, you keep talking about how I was useful, and how you were too and now-”

 

“Because we’re the same.” He cut her off, mercilessly. “Don’tcha remember?” 

 

As if the rewind button had finally stopped at its destination, a memory flickered into life in Lydia’s brain:

 

_ “Gone, split, outta here; after-life-kids... _ **_deceased_ ** _.”  _

 

_ “Are you a ghost too?” _

 

_ “I’m the ghost with the most, babe...ya know, ya look like someone I can relate to.”  _

 

Oh. 

 

She looked terrified. 

 

“N-no,” she panicked, shaking her head as if she was merely imagining things. “We’re not the same, y-you’re a killer!” Her fear was a driving force, propelling her backwards until she stumbled, treading on the hem of her skirt. She was falling before she could so much as scream; the shimmering distilled souls below her shining like stars, hands reaching out to welcome her to the depths of hell. 

 

Then, she felt his hands on her back, cupping around so that she dipped, her hair almost grazing the surface of the pools. Her eyes were wide, scanning his face like a deer in the headlights. 

 

“Watch it,” he grinned, still holding her weight in his arms. “Don’t go pullin’ a Natalie Wood on me.” He pulled her up, cupping her into his chest for good measure before releasing her. 

 

“Let go of me,” she gasped, tugging herself away once her feet found solid ground once more. She clutched her fists to her chest, fiddling with the silver chain around her neck. “Don’t touch me, just...just leave me  **alone** .” She was despairing. Half of her wished she had fallen into the river; right now she could be floating away mindlessly, not caring what happened next or who it was in trouble. Why was she always at the point of convenience for everyone, what had she done to deserve it? But the faces of the Maitlands and her family swam to the forefront of her mind, unprompted, and she knew she must go on. 

 

She said nothing to him, taking a few brave steps ahead, her skirt rippling in her wake. Of course, she had no clue where she was going, nor where this particular path led. How was it that they were even here? So many questions, so many childish, irrelevant questions pushed at the precipice of her mind until she screwed up her eyes in pain. Still, she plowed on, not even bothering to check if he followed. Finally, after what felt like hours, she came across a fork in the road. 

 

“Which way now?” She asked, looking from one direction to the other. “Is it left or…” she turned, expecting to find him there, laughing at her stupidity of not knowing where to go. But, to her horror, she found her gaze empty of belittling poltergeist. “Beetlejuice?” She whispered, scared to call him too many times incase her progress melted away before her very eyes. There was no answer. 

 

Panicking, Lydia turned to look at her two options, trying her best to figure out which route to take. Both looked identical; twisting and turning in the same places before the pathway became swallowed up by the mist. This was ridiculous,  _ where was he?  _ Dare she call for him again? One strike of three; two more fumbles and she’d be down for the count. She sighed, a dry laugh escaping in the process. 

 

“Why am I always abandoned when I need help the most?” She almost felt tears prick her eyes, but Lydia was far too stubborn to allow such weakness to break-free from the binds of inner emotion. How hard was it to chose a pathway? Knowing the kind of shit that had already happened, the likelihood of them eventually becoming one path was severe. Nothing mattered, not him, not herself and certainly not a little risk. This was childsplay, choosing a path was simple logic of the predestined. Whatever happened would happen, and she would survive - she always did. But - and this was no comforting thought - what if Betelgeuse was right; what if she  _ had  _ lost all the human within her. This thought was the one that frightened Lydia. It frightened her more than she cared to admit.

 

Maybe this was a test? He liked to play games, right; so what if this was him pushing her a little, trying to see if she would crack on the first time. Was this his way of estimating just how much she needed his help? Well, she wasn’t the damsel he thought she was, this was something she could handle perfectly fine by herself! Without so much as a second glance, Lydia took a few brave steps down the left-hand path. 

 

“Stupid ghost, fucking off and abandoning me like this,” she muttered to herself, angrily, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “What part about needing his help does he not understand?” 

 

The path didn’t seem to be leading anywhere new. All she could see ahead of her stretched on for miles of lifeless plain, still surrounded by that same dark grey mist. Lydia huffed, starting to see a flaw in her brilliant plan of continuing on in a style of reckless abandonment of her tour-guide. Maybe she had been a little demanding...No, what was she thinking? He was no better, in fact, far worse on the argument basis of murdering innocent people. She couldn’t compare herself to a murderer,  _ that _ was reckless. 

 

“Missin’ me yet?” Came an echoing voice from somewhere far out of Lydia’s tunnel of vision. .

 

_ Ha. _ She had known all along he was still there, hiding, probably invisible. She chose to remain silent, continuing to walk - a little slower - her head held high. 

 

“Aww, playin’ mute, are we?” He jeered. Lydia felt a cold breeze ruffle the hem of her dress Marilyn Monroe style, and she clamped her hands to her thighs, refusing to let him ridicule her any further. 

 

“Stop that.” 

 

“Ah,  _ now _ we’re ready to talk, huh?” He was stifling laughing, she could hear his voice quavering every slimy syllable. 

 

“No, I’m not going to talk to you because you’re not going to help.”

 

“Well, I ain’t gonna help until ya talk to me.”

 

“Then I guess we’re going to be here a while.” 

 

“Then yer gonna die.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.” 

 

She had stopped walking, fuming, too breathless with anger to carry on. He was insufferable, a completely egotistical maniac spent on making her already pathetic life a living hell. Who was he to test her patience like this? She was the only one in the entire living world he knew his name; the only one who could request his assistance in return for...what? What  _ was _ he getting out of this, aside from a marriage that she - admittedly - was plotting to get out of yet again. Did he know she was going to double cross him? Was that why he was playing with her like this?’ 

 

“Hey,” she said, softly. The sincerity on her voice caused the devil to materialise almost at once, his face still twisted into a look of bitter dislike. “Can we talk for a second?”

 

“Whaddya think I’ve been trying to-”

 

“No, I mean  _ talk _ talk...about stuff.” 

 

“Stuff?” 

 

Lydia sat down, her legs bent for her arms to rest across, thighs spread slightly for balanced comfort. She patted the rotted skeleton soil beside her, initiating for him to sit. He did, rather ungracefully, his heels digging into the compilation of death beneath them. They didn’t speak - at least not immediately. The breeze rippled Lydia’s hair gently, kissing her face with stray hairs. She turned to look at him, surprised to find his gaze was already there, waiting for her own. She shifted her position, turning her body towards his form, wanting to give him as much attention as she could in the hopes of an honest response. 

 

“The wedding,” she began, nervously, knowing his particular feelings about that subject.

 

“Yeah?” He grunted, mercilessly, snatching a small carcass off the floor, snapping it in half, tossing the remnants and grabbing another - offering it a similar treatment. 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

The breeze picked up, rippling her hair so that it whipped her face. She screwed her eyes shut, brushing it away from her eyes and tucking it behind her eyes. Upon opening them, it appeared Betelgeuse had remained unharmed. Typical. 

 

She waited for him to say something, anything, to break the exceedingly uncomfortable silence. He remained silent, stubbornly ignoring her apology; so she blundered on. 

 

“Juno made me do it - I swear, if it had been my way, I wouldn’t have let he treat you like that, it was wrong!” She was lying a little, but anything to get his complete and utter trust at this point. “I was scared of you, terrified, but I would never have backstabbed you quite like that.”

 

“Oh yeah?” He smirked, flicking the seventh carcass away. “So, how would’ ya’ve dunnit?” 

 

“I-what?”

“Weapon of choice? Juno’s was lockin’ me in’a tiny attic for a sickenin’ amount of time. What would yer’ve done?”

 

“I wouldn’t have done anything.”

 

“Liar.” 

 

Lydia clenched her fists in the material of her skirt, fuming. 

 

“Look, are we going to be able to move past this or not? For someone dead, who has so much time on their hands, you sure like living in the past!” She was yelling, her face inches from his side-profile. “God, I’m just trying to make amends here!”

 

Again, he remained as silent as ever, but it appeared he was considering her statement. It was true, she had made the first move to apologise - and he would be stupid to think he was less than deserving for the treatment he had recieved...what bothered him, what stabbed at the plush of his mind was how it had been  _ her _ . The girl he had once thought he related to, would understand him, had chucked him away like the garbage he was - just as everyone else always had. But he wasn’t one to self pity - well, not for long anyway. 

 

“Sure,” he grunted, “sure, yer sorry, but only because I’m out-n’-about now. If I were up in the attic again ya wouldn’t give me a second thought.” 

 

“Are you kidding?” She laughed, unable to contain herself. “I lived in fear every single day just knowing you were up there. You were constantly in my mind - but don’t take that as a compliment, I was scared shitless.”

 

“Glad to know I still got it,” he raised an eyebrow, smirking to himself. “Ya had me worried I might’a dried up of any juice.” 

 

“Gross.”

 

“Getch’a mind outta the gutter. Was talkin’bout my ghostly charms.” He winked at her, totally unapologetic of his backtracking. “I know yer was jus’ doin’ what Juno asked. Don’t make it right, but I understand I ain’t makin’ it any easier for ya now. Can’t say I forgive ya, but I’m a gentleman - I can let bygones be bygones…’specially for pretty gals like yerself.”

 

Lydia bit back the retort that flared up at those words. No, she couldn’t be mad at that - however inappropriate - his forgiveness (or whatever it was) meant he would help her again; and that was worth its weight in a few questionable comments. 

 

For the first time, she allowed herself a smile. The alien muscle movements in her face made it ache, the blatantly strenuous effort to maneuver her expression as thus seemed too much for her. She grimaced, clutching her cheek, rubbing it gently to ease the pain. 

 

“Been that long, huh?” 

 

“Yeah.” She said, dropping her hand into her lap and fiddling with the lace pattern on the hem of her dress. 

 

“Well,” Betelgeuse stretched his arms, groaning in satisfaction. “Better getta move on if we wanna save those dead-beat folks o’ yours.”

 

“Shit!’ Lydia shrieked, jumping to her feet as if given an electric shock. How much time had passed since this needless argument had started? How much earth time had passed in these relentless few minutes of bonding? Lydia’s heart was racing, pounding with the realisation that they were wasting precious  _ precious  _ time. “Come on!” She grabbed the poltergeist by the sleeve, hurling him off the ground. 

 

“Woah!” He blurted, stumbling to his feet. He was barely given the time to adjust his footing before they were off again, pulled into the surrounding darkness by tourist turned guide. “Cool it! Do ya even know where yer goin?!”

 

“Nope.” Lydia called back, tearing through a few tree branches that had appeared out of thin air. “But this forest is new, I’ve never seen it before.”

 

“Neither ‘ave I…” Betelegeuse looked up at the steadily thickening trees suspiciously; their unfamiliarity setting quiet alarm bells off within his head. “That  _ is  _ new.” He glanced over his shoulder, attempting to look beyond the sudden thicket of trees. 

 

There was nothing. The darkness had caught up with them, swallowing the path previously travelled like a pill. Time sure didn’t move normally here, but this haste was beyond anything Betelgeuse had ever experienced in all the 600-odd years he had been here. Something was off. 

 

“Wait, stop for a sec,” He yanked Lydia’s hand, stopping her dead in her tracks. She turned around, furiously.

 

“What are you-”

 

“Shh!” A rotting finger leapt to her lips, silencing her words of objection. “Don’t say anythin’.”

 

“Excuse m-” 

 

He grabbed her by the shoulders, his face inches away from her and le out a snake-like hiss, his wild eyes boring into hers.“ _ Be quiet, or I’ll make ya. _ ” 

 

Lydia swallowed, hardly daring to breathe. He knew how to be terrifying, and sure as hell wouldn’t turn down a chance to exercise this talent. She did as he said, muting the sudden rolodex of questions begging for answers; knowing better than to test the waters once again. 

 

Betelgeuse had let go of her, his expression turned from hers to scan the apparently absent space. He wore a frown unlike any Lydia had seen before. It was one of concern, a rarity - perhaps - in his facial repertoire. His brow furrowed, reacting to the land, apparently desolate besides themselves. This was less than comforting, usually his more-than exemplary desire to haunt, havoc and harm would have spurned on any other paranormal activity within any given area, but this? Lydia’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. 

 

“Does someone know we’re here?” She breathed, only loud enough for him to hear. She had been sorely mistaken, allowing her desire for knowledge to overcome her. He seized her, shaking her by the shoulders like a rag-doll.  

 

“What. Did. I. Jus’.  **Fuckin’.** Say?!” He panted, the fury at her nerve practically pouring out of him. The blackness surrounding his eyes seemed to widen, swallowing his vision entirely, leaving nothing but two gaping holes crawling with maggots. Lydia’s stomach lurched, but she stood her ground. He’d have to try harder to strike fear into her - it was better to teach him that now. 

 

“Sorry, I just-” 

 

“ _ Again _ ?!” He spat through gritted teeth. “Shut yer goddamn trap!” Lydia’s head was knocked back by the force of something hitting her squarely in the jaw. Staggering backwards, her hands flew to her lips - or to where they had been. A bar of freezing metal had welded itself to her face, obstructing her ability to speak. Outraged, she glared at her sufferance, silently daring him to worsen her mood. She tried to take a swing at him, to release this sudden rush of anger, only to find her hands chained behind her back. 

 

_ Bastard.  _

 

He glared back at her, his shoulders heaving, as if he had run a great distance. He looked livid, contorted with a firey hatred - although his face had returned to its rather irregular appearance. 

 

“Now,” he said, tugging the thin air parallel to Lydia’s face, causing her to tumble forward. “Are ya gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say?” 

 

There seemed to be invisible chains connected to the bar across her mouth, allowing him to pull her at will. If she had the ability, Lydia could have screamed. This was humiliating, nothing like she had ever experienced. Her eyes narrowed into slits, silently cursing his name to Hell and beyond. He had the audacity to smirk, thoroughly enjoying himself. He tilted her chin with his index finger and thumb, examining his handiwork. 

 

‘Suits ya,” he sneered, dropping her chin and stepping back. “And no, we was utterly alone - but we’d be in a nice cell somewhere if we hadn’t, n’ that’s the best case scenario. Now, c’mon,” He tugged the chain, pulling Lydia onwards like some disobedient dog. “Gotta keep it movin, right?” 

 

From maddened, to a truce, to humiliation. The journey thus far had been nothing short of nightmarish. Lydia’s eyes filled with tears, her head hanging low, remaining passive in her undeserving punishment. He was so cruel, so disinterested in morality,  _ her future husband _ . Her many ideas of how to double-cross him seemed like a distant dream now; there was no way she could hoodwink him, not when he could take control of her  _ this  _ easily. She wasn’t in any pain, in fact, this was hardly uncomfortable - surprising, given the position he had contorted her into. It was the embarrassment she was to both of them, her inability to do as she was told. But he was not one to talk; he did as he pleased - at the misfortune of others - so why couldn’t she? Double standards: Lydia hated them. 

 

More to the point: she hated  _ him _ . 

  
  



End file.
